


Now We're Cooking With Gas

by Lov_pb



Series: Animula [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Non-Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 09:39:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4175025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lov_pb/pseuds/Lov_pb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Animula is an AU slavefic where men diagnosed with the “animula gene” are enslaved by society. They are identified by the development of metallic gold rings that form around their irises. Tigress79’s story opens with Neal winning ownership of Peter during a high stakes gambling competition. Suddenly Neal finds himself with the responsibility of a man’s life and future in his hands.  In this “flashback chapter”, El has been given custody of the new business commodity – Peter. They’ve fallen in love and struggle to enjoy a brief moment of happiness before tragedy descends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now We're Cooking With Gas

**Author's Note:**

> This is an auxiliary chapter to Tigeress79’s fascinating story, “Animula”:  
> https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11291157/1/Animula  
> http://tigeress79.livejournal.com/528.html
> 
> Big thanks to Tigeress79 for being my beta.

Reading out of one of Elizabeth's well-worn cookbooks and juggling assorted spices was proving to be a slightly daunting task for Peter. Leaning against a kitchen counter, awash in dirty dishes, cooking utensils, and multiple food ingredients, he struggled to gather and tie off sprigs of fresh rosemary and thyme. A large piece of beef previously patted dry, saturated with salt and pepper, dredged in flour, and seared in olive oil was resting on the cutting board. The Dutch oven, perched on the stovetop behind the engrossed chef, held simmering carrots, onions, leeks and garlic. 

Biting his tongue, Peter smiled. The prospect of surprising his love with a home cooked meal brought delight. His love. He still couldn’t quite comprehend an unfathomable spell of good fortune. Inside Elizabeth’s apartment, doors closed and locked, a tantalizing oasis of equality existed for Peter. No requirement to safeguard his emotions; no fear an inadvertent slip of protocol would result in physical punishment.

Alone with only each other, Peter and Elizabeth enjoyed a freedom they could not experience in the outside world. Wearing her number of ownership tattooed prominently on his forearm, Peter reveled in the knowledge that she belonged to him as much as he was her legal possession. 

He was an Animula sharing a life with a desirable and beautiful woman. Disregarding society’s harsh taboos, she had chosen a pariah when she had every opportunity to select an attractive, decent, and well-connected human male. He shook his head silently. 

Elizabeth was spending this moment of time with him. Fearing the consequences of their union, Peter still could not… would not question her dangerous decision. Treasuring each moment of time spent together, he had begun safeguarding his memories for the short lifetime left allotted to him. 

Peter sat down on one of the kitchen stools and trained his gaze on the cluttered counter. Aside from scrambled eggs or slightly burned toast, Peter hadn’t tried to woo Elizabeth with non-existent cooking skills. Animula usually had meals provided to them. Unless being punished with limited sustenance for some arbitrary infraction, they were given food chosen solely on the whim of master, supervisor or guardian. Serving to financially enhance whatever corporation or individual they belonged to, it was not considered necessary to teach culinary skills or basic household tasks. Peter’s sole duty was to provide business expertise and loyalty to his master. 

During their past months together, Peter and Elizabeth had enjoyed spending time in the preparation of meals. Peter’s task had been mainly companionship, menu selection and cleanup duty. Now he wanted to offer her something more. On the rare occasions he hadn’t accompanied her to work, he had been covertly reading and dabbling in culinary experiments.

When Elizabeth regretfully confided she had to attend a Saturday afternoon mandatory business meeting, he kissed her goodbye, walked her to the doorway, and then raced off to the kitchen for cookbook reconnaissance. He knew she had recently bought all the necessities for a few future meals; he was determined to offer one up upon her return from work. 

Taking a final sip of his coffee, he stood and located the tomatoes, chicken stock, salt and pepper. He quickly added them to the pot along with the meat, two cups of wine and his secret component. He stopped, inhaled the aroma, and addressed the Dutch oven. 

“There it is,” he muttered, “the piece de resistance.” 

Lifting his chin defiantly, Peter grabbed a bottle of brandy and liberally doused the pot.

Reading the final instructions, "Put roast in pot, bring to boil and cover. Place in over for 2 ½ hours until fork tender, lower heat and keep sauce at simmer," he set the temperature at 350 degrees, and waited for the moment to place the pot in the oven. 

Voila, he had future success at his fingertips. Now all he had to do was remember to lower the temperature and ensure the sauce would continue to simmer. Julia Child had nothing over him. 

He would even have ample time to relax after a hasty but thorough cleanup. Maybe he would indulge in a beer from the fridge or turn on the baseball game. Only Elizabeth had been trusted with his sports story. Jensen, caretaker of an early owner’s estate, had provided a rare touch of normality to his adolescence, sparking an appreciation for baseball, creating a sliver of sunshine in a hostile world. 

Peter reached for a towel and squirted some dish soap on it. Glancing around the kitchen, he sighed with happiness and got to work.  
\--------------------------------------------------

Seated on the comfortable couch in the condo’s small living room, Peter finally heard the sound he had been expecting. Elizabeth’s key rattled in the lock.  


At last, he thought, she’s home. Rushing to the door he moved forward to intercept her entry. After waiting what seemed an interminable time, after the Yankee game ended, Peter had alternated between keeping vigil of the simmering sauce and leafing haphazardly through several science and business periodicals. 

Elizabeth opened the front door. “I’m home. Sorry, I’m so─”

El’s explanation and apology was cut short by Peter’s exuberant hug and lengthy kiss. 

“Wow, hon. I should be this late more often.” 

Her bright smile instantly vanished as she took quick note of Peter’s nervousness. Familiar with his moods and mannerisms, she pushed away as she felt an icy rush of fear travel up her back. 

“Peter… is something wrong? What happened? Did someone come by while I was gone?” 

Words poured out in a torrent as Peter began to shake his head, reaching out to gather her back in a comforting embrace.

El looked nervously around the entryway and living room, half expecting Renner or one of his ghoulish associates to pop out from behind the furniture. 

“I didn’t mean to frighten you, El.” Peter looked stricken with remorse. 

As her panic began to abate, the aroma of home cooking reached her nose.

“You did frighten me. What are you cooking?” she responded with a puzzled smile.

Peter took her arm, leading her to the kitchen and gesturing to one of the kitchen stools. “Sit down, El. I have a surprise.”

Elizabeth hesitated, looked puzzled and took a seat. 

“Hon,” Peter declared, “I made dinner for you.”

She glanced around the clean kitchen, devoid of dirty dishes and didn’t answer.

“It’s what you smell cooking,” said Peter smugly. “My world famous pot roast.”

Elizabeth blinked, looking up at her lover. “World famous?”

“Well, it would be if given a chance. Here take a look.” Peter stepped around her and opened the oven door. An even stronger aroma of delicious, simmering pot roast wafted into the air. 

Getting up from the bar stool, the petite brunette bent down and peered into the oven. Peter hovered nervously by her side. 

“You told me you didn’t know how to cook,” she teased. “This looks absolutely delicious.”

“The last few weeks, I’ve been conducting clandestine research into the culinary arts, searching for a dish that might offer success… to this layman.”

“Oh, Peter,” she whispered. 

“Some of your cooking books suggested pot roast. I’ve been experimenting with different sauce ingredients and settled on today’s dish.”

Peter paused. “I hope you like it.”

“Of course, I’ll like it. I can’t imagine that I wouldn’t love anything you made me.” She bit her lip, continuing, “But honey, where are all the dirty dishes?” 

The kitchen was spotless. She was familiar with his one previous attempt to make burnt eggs and toast for breakfast. The counter had been laden with cluttered pans.

“Ah… I already did the first cleanup, El. I didn’t want you walking into a mess.” He rubbed his temple. “There, there was quite a jumble of pots and pans. You have no idea …” he trailed off, sheepish look upon his face. 

Elizabeth shook her head, throwing her arms around him and hugging him tight. Her gaze took in the dining room table set for two, lovingly arranged with china, crystal, napkins and candles. All waiting for her arrival home. Even a wine bottle rested in a bucket of ice water. 

“I love you,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “I love you.”

Peter stared wordlessly at her. He hated to see El cry. 

“You’re not upset?”

“Upset? Why would I be upset?”

“Well, you’re crying and I didn’t ask permission to cook. I know you like order in your kitchen. You know, ‘A place for everything; everything in its place.’”

“My kitchen? It’s your kitchen, too! You remember that, Mister.” El reached up and lightly touched the side of his nose. “You plan this surprise for weeks, set the table, cook me dinner and think I’d be upset? I’m in heaven.”

It hurt Elizabeth to realize how much Peter’s dependence on her disturbed him. As Animula and slave, he had never been given payment for his years of labor. Money had never been allowed to touch his hands. Most establishments wouldn’t allow him to enter their place of business, never mind offer him the ability to make purchases. Society enforced the laws that left him defenseless, unable to secure his own survival. Peter’s existence depended upon the good will of his owner. All she possessed, even the money given her for his company employment, he deemed solely hers no matter how much she argued the contrary. Learning to cook was an attempt to surprise her with a personal gift. 

Peter put his arm around Elizabeth's waist, leading her toward the table. “Come on, sit down and I’ll serve you dinner. I want this night to be special.” 

Pouring wine into two glasses, handing her one, they made just the slightest movement, their private ritual of a silent toast to each other. 

Later that night, Peter pulled El toward him. Then he made love to her so tenderly and lovingly, that afterward in the quiet of the evening, she again felt tears sliding down her cheeks. She vowed she would do everything she could to keep him safe from the society that deemed him inferior.


End file.
